


Years Left Unfinished

by gillyphile



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, Post-The X-Files: I Want To Believe (2008), Pre-X-Files Revival, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-09
Updated: 2016-12-09
Packaged: 2018-09-07 12:51:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8801518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gillyphile/pseuds/gillyphile
Summary: When Scully leaves Mulder because of his depression, he's left to pick up the pieces of who they used to be.





	

**Year One**

 

**January 24, 2012**

 

Mulder blinked his eyes open slowly, the sun filtering in through the living room window. He scrunched his nose and threw a hand over his face to shield himself from the onslaught of light. Rubbing at his eyes, Mulder sat up on the couch. He looked around and saw he’d left the TV on again. He yawned, reaching for the remote to turn it off. He’d slept on the couch again. Scully had been busy at the hospital for the past few weeks, and she’d taken to sleeping there when she worked too late. Sometimes she would come home to get a change of clothes but leave again before he woke up. She usually left a note if she stopped by telling him to pick up some food.  
Cracking his neck, he made his way to the kitchen. He eased the refrigerator door open and was met with mostly empty shelves and a couple expired items. He took out the orange juice and sniffed at it. It seemed fine, but Scully had warned him about the consequences of drinking expired beverages. He put it back in the fridge reluctantly and wondered if she’d come by during the night.

He hadn’t seen her in a while. Come to think of it, it had been more than a week since he’d last talked to her. Or was it longer? She’d been angry at him for not taking his pills. He’d refused to take anti-depressants. He wasn’t depressed. Just because he wasn’t working the x-files anymore and hiding out in the middle of nowhere didn’t mean he was depressed. Maybe he shut himself in his office for days at a time and lose himself in conspiracy forums, but it outside research and he had to keep track of paranormal abnormalities in the news. Anytime they spoke with each other these days seemed like one never-ending fight. It was a stupid fight. She wanted to help him get better and he didn’t think he was sick in the first place.

He lumbered into the bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror, instinctively smoothing a hand against his scratchy jaw. He needed a shave. Scully didn't like it when he grew it out too much. He reached for an unused can of shaving cream and plucked his razor from its perch next to Scully’s. His hand froze. Scully’s razor was gone.  
He blinked. She never misplaced things. Scully was a stickler for having a “home” for everything. Something must’ve happened to it—her razor—the silly little pink thing he always teased her about because it was so unlike her. Maybe she just took it to the hospital with her because she was spending the night so often. But he couldn’t remember her having any major surgeries in the past week. An uneasy feeling clenched in his gut.

He opened the medicine cabinet, knocking over unopened pill bottles of anti-depressants as he tried to find her razor. Maybe she decided to move it. Or thrown it out. He crouched down next to the toilet and emptied the trash can. Nothing. Panic started to build in his chest. He ran out of the bathroom and quickly surveyed their room. It looked cleaner than yesterday. Scully’s robe wasn't thrown over the chair in the corner and her brush was missing from the dresser. Maybe she was going on a trip and she forgot to tell him. His gaze landed on the bed and then her nightstand. All her things were missing. His heart beat faster; this wasn't happening. Mulder walked over to the closet and slid the door open. No. Her clothes were gone.

His head started to pound and everything became blurry as he stumbled to the front door. He needed to find her. This was all a mistake, she wouldn’t just leave, she—He saw the note on the door and an icy-cold feeling of dread spiked through him.

 

M—

 

Science was always my north star of truth and cold-hard facts. But you showed me there was something greater to believe in, something beyond all the stars. After all this time, I thought the best thing I believed in was us. But I can’t keep following you into the dark, and I can’t keep fighting you. I don’t know what to believe in anymore, Fox.

 

—S

 

He tore the note from the door, crushing it in his hand as tears threatened to choke him. He couldn't breath. She was gone.

 

**January 31, 2012**

 

He called her mother and now he had a hastily written address crumpled in his hand, the other poised to knock on her door. This was wrong. He sighed, running a hand through his thick mop of hair. He couldn’t do this. She left him. Left him to deal with his “depression.” His days spent in a half-lit room searching for the truth because he didn’t know how else to anymore. But didn’t she know she was the only thing that kept him looking? That she was light that would swallow his darkness whole?

 

**February 23, 2012**

 

He wondered what she was doing for her birthday. She didn’t have many friends at the hospital, but he hoped they were celebrating, having a normal moment because if there was anything Scully had ever wanted, it had been some semblance of a normal life. Something he could never give her.

 

Mulder took another swig of his scotch, some of it spilling onto his shirt. He coughed, slamming the glass down on his desk and cursing. Wiping his lips, Mulder pulled off his stained shirt and threw it to the ground angrily.

They weren’t normal. And Scully had never wished for anything different. She told him as much over the years. They had a house and she was a doctor again. Maybe they were missing a white picket fence and 2.5 kids, but Scully didn’t pretend to want those things. Not after—not after William. It hurt too much.  
Mulder went into the bedroom to grab another shirt. He opened his drawer and saw it was empty. He hadn’t gotten to the laundry in a while. Scully usually did it. Sighing, he started rooting through the other drawers for a sweater. His hand hit something hard and his fingers wrapped around something square. He pulled it out. It was a framed photograph. He sucked in a breath. It was a picture of Scully he’d packed away when she left. Her head was arched back in laughter, eyes gleaming and joyful. He didn't remember what she was laughing at, but it had always been one of his favorite pictures of her. She was happy. They used to be happy.  
Now he remembered why he hid the photo in the first place. Thinking about them always made him maudlin.

 

**March 30, 2012**

 

He knocked.

 

When she opened the door, he drank in her appearance—the glasses pushed back on her head, the big gray socks swallowing her little feet, and finally, her clear blue eyes that always took his breath away. His heart quivered.

 

“You didn’t say goodbye.”

 

“Mulder, I—”

 

He stepped inside before she could stop him.

 

“Nothing is the same anymore, Scully.”

 

“It’s been that way for a while,” she sighed.

 

“I didn’t mean to pull you into my darkness, but I can’t do it alone. Not anymore. I need my partner.”

 

She stood silently, not meeting his gaze. He sank onto her kitchen chair, his head hanging. He felt her fingers tentatively touch the nape of his neck, hot and soothing.

 

“Scully, please.”

 

He caught her wrist in his hand.

 

She shivered.

 

“You didn’t say goodbye.”

 

He tugged her close and she fell into him, cradling her head on his chest as if she’d never stopped.

 

“Stay,” she whispered.

 

He kissed her then, finding home in the valley of her lips and slick of her tongue but his hurt and anger fueled the hard bite of his mouth and rough caress of his hands. Scully mewled against him, pulling at his hair and scraping her teeth against his neck.

 

He shot up from the chair, and her legs locked around him seamlessly, their bodies in sync. His back twinged and he grunted as he carried her towards the bedroom. They weren’t young anymore.

 

“It’s on the left,” she murmured, feathering a kiss across his cheek.

 

“Don’t do this if you don’t mean it, Scully,” he growled, nipping the skin behind her ear.

 

She tightened her grip around his waist in answer.

 

Their lovemaking was sweet and sad and desperate. It filled a part of the hole inside him, but he knew it wasn’t enough anymore. In the morning, he slipped away.

 

He was never good at saying goodbye, either.

 

**May 20, 2012**

 

Mulder eyed the date on the computer screen and his finger skimmed over the keyboard, hovering over the “W.” He pressed down, filling in the rest of the name in the search engine, his chest suddenly pounding. His eyes slipped shut and he breathed deeply. He didn’t even know the last name. This was a fool’s errand. His hand quickly tapped the “Delete” bar and the name disappeared, and he stared at his board of newspaper clippings and blurry photos. What was the point? None of it mattered. Not without her. Not without their family. He pushed his keyboard away angrily, slamming his fist on his desk. He wanted to feel something other than the dull ache of loneliness. His hand drifted to his bottom drawer, seeking out the small framed photo of Scully napping with her son.

 

Their son.

 

Sometimes he still didn’t believe it.

 

A quiet knock from the front door roused him from his seat. No one ever visited him. Skinner called sometimes and he would always go out to visit his sources. He would never bring them to the house. Because he didn’t want to put Scully in danger.

 

Scully.

 

He jumped out of his chair and rushed to the front door, tripping on a trio of dead plants in the foyer. She had already turned to leave when he finally opened the door, her hand clutching at the golden cross hanging from her neck. Her head whipped around and her eyes flew to his, wide and afraid.

 

“Hey,” he managed.

 

The indefinable grief in her gaze swallowed him whole. “Don’t go,” he said helplessly, reaching an arm out to her as if it would be enough to stop her. She looked him and then at the picture frame still in his hand. Her gaze shot to his, tears welling in the corner of her eyes.

 

“You remembered,” she gasped slightly.

 

“He turns twelve today.”

 

She nodded her head silently, the tears spilling over.

 

“We never talk about him,” said Mulder.

 

“I don’t know how,” Scully whispered.

 

“I miss him. Us. What we could’ve been.”

She nodded again, slipping soundlessly into him and burying herself in the warm embrace of his arms. He held her until both of their tears dry, carrying her over to their bed when she drifted to sleep, exhausted. Mulder stole a pillow and deposited himself on the couch. He turned on the TV but muted the sound, an old comfort. And for the first time in months, they both slept.

 

**October 13, 2012**

 

He didn’t even realize it was his birthday until she called.

 

“So much for my photographic memory,” he said. “You’re getting old, Mulder,” she laughed softly.

 

“According to you.”

 

“And regular logic says calendar year has passed since your last birthday.”

 

“I’ve never been one for regular logic, Scully. I’m hurt you would think otherwise.”

 

“I don’t think I’ll ever forget you genuinely believe in the mothman.”

 

“He’s recently been sighted in the woods somewhere near Vancouver.”

 

He could almost hear her roll her eyes over the phone and smiled.

 

“Happy Birthday, Mulder.”

 

**December 21, 2012**

 

He sat at the kitchen table watching the clock tick by, the seconds slowly reaching closer to midnight, eventually sliding past the twelve. He stood up and looked out the window at the dark, snow-covered field. Nothing. He went out to the front porch and leaned against the railing, craning his neck towards the sky. No flashing lights or other signs of an alien invasion. So much for the apocalypse.

When he’d seen the date in glowing green type in a secret government facility a decade ago, he thought the world was going to end. That everything he’d believed to be true was going to come raining down on human civilization in the worst way possible. But it was a foolish farce. A miscalculated date on a Mayan calendar. Nothing more.  
Scully would tease him for wanting the world to actually end only to prove that he was right. She’d tell him he should be happy the aliens weren’t taking over, and then she’d go on and on about the scientific improbability of extraterrestrial life on earth. Even after all their years on the x-files, she never failed to have the rational, scientific argument. Even when she believed, she never lost faith in logic.

He walked back into the house before his toes started to freeze. He went to turn the light off in the kitchen, passing by his office. His desk phone was blinking red. He stopped in his tracks. She called and he’d missed it. He knew it was her, and he kicked himself for not being there to pick up because he hadn’t heard from her in a while.  
He picked up the phone from its cradle and pushed the voicemail button. For a moment all he heard was silence.  
“Mulder, it’s me.” He almost broke down right there. “I just wanted to make sure you were alright. The holidays are around the corner, and I don’t think it’s a good time to be alone in your state.” He scoffed. It was one of her physician calls. He would’ve hung up right then, but it felt good to hear her voice.  
“I’m sorry, that’s not what I meant to say.” He clutched the phone tighter. “I wanted—Mulder…” He heard her sigh, frustrated. And then in a soft whisper, she said, “The world didn’t end.” He couldn’t describe what he felt. Gratitude. Relief. Pain. Love. He loved her so much. She remembered. He tilted his head to the ceiling, blinking back tears. Even though she’d never really believed it to be true, she remembered. Remembered that he never gave up hope, never stopped fighting for the truth. “The world didn’t end, Mulder. And you shouldn’t give up. Please, don’t give up. Just...don’t. Please, call me.” The phone beeped, the voice asking if he wanted to listen to the message again. He did. He listened to it three more times before he slid open the drawer where Scully had put one of his prescription bottles and lifted it out. He pressed down on the cap, unscrewing it from the top and tipped two antidepressants onto his palm. She was right. She was always right. And he was stubborn. He swallowed them without water and picked up the phone to call her back.

Maybe there was hope.


End file.
